


Tarosa (Rise)

by FadeKhat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: The Musical, Elf Culture & Customs, F/F, F/M, Gender Identity, Hope, Inspired by Music, One Shot Collection, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Tranquility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadeKhat/pseuds/FadeKhat
Summary: Kept from her clan by circumstance, there is little Inquisitor Revanelan Ilriane Lavallen won’t question in her quest to rise above the greatest threat Thedas has ever faced.(A collection of self contained but interconnected one shots on identity, time travel theory, tranquility and hope, salvaged from what was meant to be a much larger story)





	1. Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome, I hope you enjoy my brief foray into the world of Dragon Age: Inquisition. The world of Dragon Age, and Elana’s story in particular, has come to mean so much to me... There’s so much more to this in my mind, but I’ve decided to redirect my creative energy toward original writing so I thought I would share what I have. There should be 4 chapters total, posted weekly.
> 
> Apologies in advance for my superfluous use of half-baked Elvish, I couldn't resist! This chapter uses some of Varric's in game dialogue as a jumping off point.
> 
> Ma serannas.

Elana could feel their stares like pinpricks on the back of her neck, sharp as the blood writing that had marked her with the vallaslin of Ghilan’nain, as she left Haven’s Chantry. That she was used to. On the rare occasion Clan Lavellan was permitted to enter a shemlen city, they had been met with watchful eyes and brusque suspicion.

She wore their distrust like a badge of honor, a sign that she remained a Dalish savage in their eyes despite being farther from the Free Marches than she’d ever imagined was possible. This… this was something else entirely.

Ever since Elana had returned from closing the rift at the conclave with her former captor and the elven apostate, she’d begun to feel like the shemlen version of a golden halla. She could take scornful glances and closed doors in prideful stride, but the awe-filled silence and whispered prayers of the Inquisition’s people set her cheeks aflame.

_Let’s just hope the Chantry doesn’t butcher their sacred animals for sacrifice._

With a nod to Quartermaster Threnn, she slipped into the twilight lit camp, pulling the fur-lined hood of her stone bear armor up against the evening chill. The camp was filled with activity and everyone from the alchemist to the spymaster and the enlisted men running drills just beyond the gates seemed to have found their place in it.

Rounding the bend toward the cluster of sturdy wooden huts, she came to a stand still. One of those was _hers_ , Cassandra had said, but even bearing the supposed mark of their Maker, Elana couldn’t shake the feeling she was woefully out of place.

Before she could follow that thought, Varric, a dwarven rogue with the most intricate crossbow she’d ever seen, sidled up behind her.

“So, now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, are you holding up alright? I mean you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would’ve spread that out over more than one day,” Varric said with the casual air of someone who’s seen more than enough madness, thank you very much.

Elana smiled sheepishly, running a hand over the brown stubble of her partially shaven head. What little hair she had shot out of her crown and over her forehead like the spikes of a small porcupine.

“I’m just glad I’m still standing after all that. The meeting at the Conclave was never going to end _well_ , but I certainly wasn’t expecting someone to tear a hole in the sky,” Elana said, shaking her head in disbelief.

The dwarf only laughed, leading her back to the fire with a wave of his hand.

“I still can’t believe you survived Cassandra,” he said, tossing another log on the fire. “You’re lucky you were out cold for most of her frothing rage. For days now we’ve been staring at the Breach watching demons and whatever else fall out of it. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“Neither can I, it almost feels like a dream - and mages are usually pretty good at picking up on that kind of thing,” she said, shuffling closer to the fire.

“You might want to consider running at the first opportunity, I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere, I’ve seen that, but the hole in the sky, that’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

With that, Varric pulled a flask bearing a familiar coat of arms from some hidden pocket. He took a considerable swig before offering it to Elana.

“Come on, this stuff is straight outta’ Kirkwall. Once it’s gone it’ll be nothing but ‘hard’ cider and stale ale out in this frozen wasteland,” he says.

Elana raised a questioning brow in his direction before shrugging her shoulders and giving in to the strangeness of the past several days. He may not be Dalish, or even elven, but at this point ‘not human’ was good enough for her.

“Why not,” she said, raising the flask in a half hearted toast. “Here’s hoping your Maker sends something our way.”

The whiskey was warm and oaky with a hint of Northern spice, leaving a slight herbal aftertaste as its flavor scalded the back of her throat.

It was the kind of drink she would’ve shared with the hunters of Clan Lavellan after a particularly good season of trading, she thought. Awash in the natural wealth of the Free Marches, they would pass the bottle round’ as Ilvin told the tale of one of Andruil’s ancient hunts, the goddess’ exploits growing greater with every swallow. Arlathae would be sitting beside her, of course, her uncommonly golden hair shining in the starlight as she sharpened a hunter’s sword to a deadly point with her whetstone.

_Venavis. Thinking of her will do you no good now._

Still, she had to smile. After over a month in the shadow of the Divine Conclave, a dwarf’s flask had taken her home, if only for a moment.

 

xxx

 

Some hours later, Elana found herself finishing the last of a several warm mugs of hard cider from the tavern with Varric. A few of the more down to earth Inquisition soldiers had come and gone in that time, their fascination with his seemingly endless stories drawing them to the fire despite the complication of her presence. One or two seemed conflicted by the prospect of drinking with the alleged “Herald of Andraste,” but that only made Elana down her own cider faster. At least that way they knew it was okay for them to do the same, and she got a bit of a kick out of watching the pious ones squirm.

“Please, just call me Elana,” she’d said to each and every one.

The words rang in her head like a prayer.

The fire was down to embers by the time Elana and Varric were alone again. Some of the soldiers had pulled over a stack of crates to serve as benches earlier, and she regarded her new companion across the flames as the night’s quiet settled over them.

Her head was enveloped in a warm cloud of whiskey and wild tales of Kirkwall. Hearing about Hawke and Anders and the lyrium mad templars from Varric in person lent a whole new perspective to the “Tale of the Champion,” but one particular encounter had been echoing in her head since she’d first met the charismatic dwarf.

“Varric, were you at Sundermount when Clan Sabrae was wiped out?”

“I… Yeah. Damn, somehow I was really hoping you wouldn’t ask about that,” Varric scratched the back of his head uncertainly, not quite meeting her eye as he continued. “It was complicated - like demons crawling out of magic mirrors into ancient elven graveyards complicated. Merrill’s clan wasn’t too happy about us taking out their Keeper after she got possessed. We were cornered, you know? Hawke tried to talk to them, but they just kept coming at us like Darkspawn straight outta’ the Deep Roads. Not that it’s the same thing, but-”

Elana raised a hand to stop him.

“ _Nuven’in sul nan sahlin nadas sul’ema numin uth._ A need for vengeance in the moment brings tears eternal, or something like that. The end of Clan Sabrae was a significant loss, but you’re right, in many ways they brought it upon themselves,” she said, her voice low.

Elana wondered what her clan would think if they heard her say that. Keeper Istimaethoriel would give her a knowing smile, proud that her fiery First had finally begun to master her temper, but Ilvin and Arlathae would practically be spitting with rage, she thought.

_I expect Arlathae would try to fight him, even knowing she can barely stand. ‘Half an elf’s still better than a whole Durgen’len,” she’d say._

“Wow, you just get elfier by the minute, don’t you Badger? That’s a pretty nice line though, what’s it ‘Nuven sulan-’”

She managed the ghost of a smile as he mangled the phrase, letting her memories slip away once again.

“ _Nuven’in sul nan_ , a need for vengeance.”

“Right, that,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve seen ‘a need for vengeance’ get a lot of people into a lot of terrible places since I met Hawke - I’m surprised you’re taking this so well, honestly.”

“Many members of Clan Sabrae’s left long before their Keeper’s end at Sundermount. It’s no small thing to abandon one clan for another, but the halla rots at the head. Keeper Marethari’Din resigned her people to that fate when she bound them to a shemlen city for six years,” Elana said, tracing circles in the dirt with her big toe. “Still, if you happen to find yourself amongst the Dalish again, I’d recommend telling them some other Varric wrote ‘Tales of the Champion.’ We have an entire god devoted to vengeance, after all.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” Varric said, chuckling darkly.

Elana stared into the fire for a long moment before throwing back the final dregs of her drink and moving to stand. She swooned slightly under the weight of the night’s revelry.

“Well, thanks for the drinks Varric. Sorry to end on such a yellow note, you’re really quite good company.”

“It happens. Don’t be a stranger, Herald.”

She threw a wave over her shoulder as she started toward the gates of Haven.

 _I’m not spending another night surrounded by these walls_ , she decided, continuing toward the archway on impulse.

“Wait, where are you going? It’s past midnight, the gate’s closed,” Varric called after her.

“Not for me it’s not,” Elana declared, tapping the wall beside the merchant’s stall smartly with one hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. Probably.”

With that, she tumbled backward into a drunken fade step that sent her ass first into a snow drift in the practice yard.

“Shit. When are you gonna learn to stop messing with apostates, Varric?” Varric muttered under his breath from the other side of the wall. “You okay Badger? Please tell me you didn’t pop back into existence halfway through a tree or something.”

With a quick glance around to ensure no one had witnessed her misstep, Elana stood and began to beat the snow out of her furs.

“ _Sathan_ , Varric, I didn’t go _through_ the wall, I went _around_ it. There’s a difference you know!”

“Whatever you say, Hearld,” Varric shouted over the wall, collecting his thoughts before coming upon a strike of drunken inspiration. “Oh, it was the mirror! That’s why Merrill’s Keeper stuck around Kirkwall so long - Daisy was trying to unlock some crazy elven portal or something.”

“Crazy elven what? Wait, you mean an eluvian?”

“Sure, coulda’ been,” Varric called back.

The thought of such an artifact alone was enough to pull her straight back to earth. Half of Haven could probably hear them by now, but Elana didn’t care in the least.

_It’s only been two years, if Clan Sabrae left Sundermount in a hurry, maybe the eluvian’s still there. Imagine everything we could learn..._

She started walking. It wasn’t as if she was going to make for Kirkwall that very night, but something in her Dalish blood made her think best when she was moving. Free of Haven’s walls, Elana felt her presence expand to fill the moonlit hills and forests as she skirted the frosty shores of the frozen lake.

Her feet carried her past snow laden pines and the windswept tracks of deer and woodland animals. The distant calling of an owl washed over her like the first song her heart had ever known. She breathed in the perfect stillness of the night, a fragile moment beyond time held in the palm of Andruil’s hand.

Elana smiled when she came across her own reflection in the frosted window of an abandoned cabin. She had long ago made peace with the ragged scar that tore through her left eye down into her cheek, if not with its cause. It marked her for what she was as much as Ghilan’nain’s violet vallaslin.

 _I suppose the mark on my hand will come to define me just the same,_ she mused. _The vallaslin was my choice, at least._

Elana came to a stop beside the cabin as she pulled up the edge of her glove, revealing the pulsing green mark that some unknown magic had seared into the palm of her hand. Even at rest, she felt the thrum of its power in her bones.

_It’s like it’s not even a part of -_

Something snapped in the woods behind her, possibly a twig or a hardened patch of snow. The silence that followed was deafening, and it took every ounce of Elana’s will not to turn around. An animal that had happened upon an stray elf in the woods would’ve run off, or skittered up a tree at least.

She was being followed.

Careful to control her breathing, Elana pretended to regard the mark on her hand with studious interest as she gathered her wits about herself.

_You are Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares, Lady of the Hunt, Andruil. I remember the Ways of the Hunter, come with me._

Pulling her glove back over her hand, Elana turned and redirected her path as naturally as possible toward one of the steeper hills nearby. Casting a casual glance over her shoulder at the lake, she maintained a leisurely pace as she picked her way through the undergrowth despite the fluttering rhythm of her heart.

Just before she reached the top, she heard it again. A soft but definitive crunch of crystalline snow near the wood line.

Throwing caution to the wind, Elana turned on her heel and threw herself down the hill in the direction of the noise, snow skittering against the wraps on her feet as she collided with a lithe elven body.

He was ready for her. His sidestep was so subtle, she would’ve missed him entirely if she hadn’t grabbed a handful of his shirt on the way down. Somehow, in the tangle of arms and snow, he gained the higher ground, and she recognized him in the starlight.

“Solas? What are _you_ doing here?”

“I should be asking you the same. Have you tired of life as the chosen of Andraste already?”

Elana stepped back, removing her hand from his chest. He hardly seemed to notice.

“What - I, no, I mean…” She grasped for words, unsure of what to tell him, much less of how she actually felt.

_Of course I’d rather not be the Chantry’s ‘blessed Herald,’ but does he really think I’d just disappear into the night like that?_

She sighed in exasperation, making her way back down the rest of the hill toward the lake. Solas followed close behind.

“I don’t know if Cassandra told you, _hahren_ , but I’m not actually a prisoner anymore. That means I get to do things like walk through walls and go for midnight strolls when I feel like it,” she said with dry humor.

“Don’t you mean walk _around_ walls?” he responded, his wry tone betraying his dour expression.

Elana came to a stop by the mountain facing side of the cabin, crossing her arms as she looked out over the lake.

“So you _were_ listening.”

Solas stood beside her, folding his arms behind his back as he followed her gaze into the distance.

“Yes, I imagine all of Haven was. Perhaps not the best look if you are hoping to inspire their faith as the blessed Herald of Andraste.”

“Well, then _perhaps_ their Maker should’ve bestowed his mark on some mealy-mouthed Chantry sister instead,” she scoffed.

He chuckled softly, turning slightly to face her.

“I suppose that is true. It may be that the Inquisition will need to adapt its expectations somewhat to suit your nature.”

 _My nature? I wonder what_ that _could mean._

“You know, not all Dalish elves are so flaky as to disappear at the first sign of danger. These may not be my people, but the Breach endangers us all. I would not flee from that,” Elana said, squaring her shoulders and looking Solas straight in the eye as she spoke.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, then thought better of it.

“I - of course. I shouldn’t have doubted your resolve, Herald. _Ir abelas_.”

_I am sorry._

Solas inclined his head slightly toward her, lending an almost formal air to his apology.

“ _Tel’abelas_ , I understand,” she said, turning away from his gaze. “And please, just call me Elana. At least out here.”

“You are First Elana amongst you clan, are you not?”

She took a seat on a nearby tree stump, crossing one leg over her knee.

“Well, First Ilriane, actually, that was my mother’s name, but only really when Keeper Istimaethoriel is about, or when there are _Shem_ within hearing. You need grey hair before the titles really start to kick in with us,” she said.

“Ah yes, there is nothing quite like the elven fascination with age. You have to wonder how much it could have mattered back when we were immortal.”

“Sure it did,” Elana said, rising to counter the contempt in his voice. “There has to be at least as much difference between living to twenty or a hundred as there is between two hundred and a thousand.”

“A fair point,” Solas said, tilting his head in attrition. “Elana it is then, at least until we return to Haven.”

She bit back an exasperated sigh, smiling despite herself.

“And why’s that?”

“Because I do not want anyone else to make the mistake of underestimating you as I did, _Elana_.”

Elana felt a slight blush bloom across her cheeks.

“ _Ma serannas_ , Solas,” she said, ducking her head.

_My thanks, Solas._

She looked out over the horizon then, her eyes catching the bright smear of light over the mountain tops.

“Look, it’s almost dawn. I’ve never seen a sunrise with this much snow before. Would you like to watch with me before we head back?”

It was so long before Solas spoke, Elana would have thought he’d walked away if she hadn’t heard him breathing.

“ _Ra ea ma’neral._ ”

_It would be my pleasure._

The pair of apostates lapsed into silence as they watched the sun break over the snowy horizon, painting the towering peaks of Haven every sparkling shade of pink, purple and red Elana could imagine. The icey plane of the frozen lake became a sea of fire before their eyes.

Just before the sun came to rest above the mountains in all its blindly glory, she caught sight of Solas in the corner of her eye.

Cast in the light of the celestial body for which he was named, Solas almost seemed to glow. There was a quiet power behind his unassuming pose, she thought, but his expression was utterly unreadable.

When he finally turned to face her, Elana simply smiled and nodded in the direction of the gates. They returned to the village proper without breaking the spell of silence they had woven between them.

_Saron durlahn, a shared silence more powerful than most any words._


	2. Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unwilling Herald of Andraste encounters a band of rebel mages and considers the implications of Tranquility.

An eerie silence announced the presence of rebel mages as surely as the towering spindles of ice that lined the path through the Witchwood. While the Hinterlands were positively teeming with fat rams and chittering foxes, the foggy recesses of the rebel camp were bereft of wildlife.

Their absence set Elana on edge. Any good Dalish, any good woodsman of any race, knew that their life often depended on their ability to interpret the actions of beasts. When deer fled, you knew there was a predator on the horizon. When birds fell silent, you knew a storm was brewing.

_ And when a fertile wetland is frozen over and abandoned by all manner of beats, you just keep going,  _ Elana thought.

The fog grew thicker as they approached the entrance to a dank cave and Elana sensed a presence on the edge of her vision. Cassandra unsheathed her sword and raised her shield, silent as a ghost, as Varric prepared a bolt for Bianca. Solas, per usual, already had his staff at the ready.

Suddenly, a great arc of lightning tore through the haze. The whole world seemed to flash purple as the party dove for cover.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Elana quipped, scabbling to her feet as she cast a whirlwind of Dalish magic about her companions. The simple spell, normally used to propel aravels up steep hills and across airless planes, blustered the fog into submission, revealing a rag tag band of mages and one surprised looking mercenary in full armor.

Elana lashed out at him with a stream of fireballs before he could so much as raise his sword. By the time he had recovered, Cassandra was upon him, her taunting battle cry trailing behind her like a cape. She hit him full on in the face with her shield before drawing back to counter a blow from his two-handed weapon.

The mages were trickier. With Cassandra there to hold off the brute, Elana, Solas and Varric focused their efforts on taking out the weakest of the three mages, a scrawny looking Ferelden woman with a rat's nest of brown hair. The fight hardly seemed fair - she was a competent mage by circle standards, but it was clear she hadn’t been eating, or bathing, with any regularity since the rebellion began.

“Surrender, you can still come out of this alive,” Elana called out over the fray as Solas cast a barrier around them. “We’re with the Inquisition, the templars won’t hurt you!”

“Ha! You chantry folk are all the same - you expect us to bend to your will when we were born to be gods!” The woman shouted back, laughing ecstatically as she summoned a fire rune beneath their feet.

Elana rolled away, barely avoiding the explosive backlash of her spell. Varric, who hadn’t been quite so lucky, coughed up a plume of smoke and dragged himself to his feet.

“I don’t think they’re really in the mood to negotiate, Badger,” he said, firing a bolt at the cackling mage just as she fade stepped away. “Dammit!”

“They must be mad if they think magic entitles them to such power,” Solas said, pinning the woman to the stone exterior of the cave with a well placed wave of ice.

“Well, can’t say I didn’t try,” Elana acquiesced, giving in to the visceral thrill of battle.

Fighting other mages, going mind to mind in a battle of wits rather than brawn, was something Elana had never experienced prior to her time with the Inquisition. Whereas warriors would plod endlessly toward her no matter what combination of flame, spark and spirit she threw at them, taking down a mage required a special combination of will and forethought.

With Solas and Varric consumed with pursuit of the madwoman, for example, there was little stopping the second enchanter from fade stepping to Cassandra’s rear, which he did. But if Elana was ready an electricity rune, which she was, she should be able to throw him off balance before he could cast a shield around himself and his sword-bearing friend. She did, and as the rebel enchanter recoiled in shock, Elana closed in for the kill. 

The wave of adrenaline that coursed through Elana’s body as the mage fell before her, coalescing in her head and her groin and her fingertips, was nothing short of intoxicating. It sometimes scared her, in her darker moments, how much pleasure she took from the moment in which another’s will crumbled before her.

Ultimately, of course, she realized it made little difference. They were doing what must be done. If not these mages, then a dozen Inquisition men or an entire village might perish in their place.

Once the mercenary fell to Cassandra’s wrath, the remainder of the battle progressed quickly, the mage’s blighted barriers notwithstanding. Never before had Elana encountered such  _ uniquely resistant _ defenses.

Still, the party pressed on to the rebel mages’ lair, patiently picking off its inhabitants with bolts of steel and spell from the mouth of the cave until one by one they were enraged enough to come charging into the final embrace of Cassandra’s sword.

Elana felt the presence of Solas’ aura sharpen around her as the other mages fell. While her own stores of mana seemed to flow out of her like an all consuming wave that embraced or dismantled everything in its path, his energy was more restrained. When the elven enchanter cast a spell, it burst forth with the cold precision of his favored element, ice.

Together, their auras flowed around each other, her flood of energy parting like the sea against the stone of Solas’ focus without either sacrificing their strength. While at first this had been distracting, Elana was beginning to notice a pattern in the way their mana moved, in the way she timed a spell or he cast a barrier to avoid breaking the other’s focus.

It was fantastic to feel herself falling in synch with another mage, and Elana could tell from the way Solas caught her eye when the last rebel fell that he felt it too.

 

Xxx

 

It was almost dusk by the time Elana’s party began to pick through the rebel camp. They had been living on next to nothing, it seemed, so there was little of value amongst the damaged crates and threadbare tents. Charred bones littered the firepit, suggesting the former circle mages had been surviving on what they could catch alone.

“We should camp here for tonight in case anyone comes back,” Elana said, her tone hovering halfway between command and suggestion. Cassandra seemed all too happy to listen to her since declaring her Andraste’s Herald, but something about her ill-gotten power didn’t sit quite right with her.

Elana was used to leading by merit, not divine decree.

“Yes, that is a good idea,” Cassandra agreed in her thick Nevarran accent. “There can’t be many more of them based on our reports, it would be best to take them by surprise.”

“You sure? This isn’t exactly the most defensible location, we shot them like a bunch of rebellious fish in a barrel,” Varric said, sifting through a crate of pilfered potions. Most of the bottles were empty.

“The only reason they couldn’t hold this cave is because they were half mad and half starved to death. Solas and I will keep you safe,  _ Durgen’len _ ,” Elana said with a wink.

“Whatever you say Badger,” Varric said, shaking his head good humoredly.

Cassandra spoke up then, something about establishing a watch rotation, but Elana was already drifting off deeper into the skylit cave. Tucked into a stone outcropping was what appeared to be makeshift reading nook, complete with candles and a stack of suitably dense arcane tomes. Pinned beneath the third volume of  _ Fade Philosophy in the Age of Wonders  _ was a collection of half formed calls to arms. They seemed to be early drafts of the letters Elana had found on rebel mages throughout the Hinterlands.

One missive, which read more like a speech, caught Elana’s eye.

_ The circle has fallen, our ‘betters’ grovel at the feet of untouched nobles, and yet you have been called! Embrace the power of the Fade that beats within your every heartbeat. No longer can our will be contained, for we shall reshape this sorry world as the living gods we are. _

“Living gods…”

Before Elana could follow the thought, a barefoot elf in dirt spattered robes shuffled out of the shadows of the alcover toward her.

“Did you mean what you said about protecting us from the Templars?” He said, his voice that of a man who had gazed into the abyss and never quite made it back.

“Fenedhis!” Elana shouted, drawing her staff on impulse. She heard Varric knock a bolt into place behind her.

“Are you going to kill me?” The man asked with unyielding disinterest. His head lolling slightly to one side, he seemed to stare straight through her.

“I… what?”

“If that is your will. I am hungry and have been very cold since leaving the Circle.”

Elana’s breath caught in her throat as the dirty elf took an unbalanced step toward her. His collar bones protruded angrily from the open collar of his robes, speaking of a brutal hunger. His feet were bloody and his nails cracked and caked with mud.

He looked like something worse than death, and he sounded like it too.

“You want me to kill you because you’re cold?” Elana said, her voice shaking slightly despite herself.

Something about this man, this _ creature _ , made her feel like there were worms tunneling beneath her skin. Part of her almost wanted to end him, for fear that whatever had overtaken him might be catching.

_ Surely it would be the merciful thing to do. _

Solas closed the distance between them then, placing a hand softly on Elana’s shoulder to pull her from her thoughts.

“He is tranquil, Herald. The Templars severed his connection to the Fade, ostensibly because they feared he was vulnerable to possession. He doesn’t want you to kill him, although I suppose he also doesn’t want to live.”

“I would not normally support such a measure,” the man said. “But considering my present state, I am at peace with my fate, whatever it may be.”

Elana made a concerted effort not to flinch at his words, focusing instead on reattaching her staff to the sling on her back. 

“I… see. I have never encountered a tranquil mage before. It’s suddenly become even easier to understand why the Circle was so desperate to rebel,” she said, acknowledging his touch with an absent brush of her hand as she stepped away toward the broken mage. “What is your name?”

“I am called Belavahn,” he responded, as if he had no particular attachment to the word.

“It means ‘many questions,” Solas translated. “A fitting name once, I am sure.”

Elana couldn’t help but sigh at the implications of his words. Even a Dalish elf knew Circle mages were made tranquil for possessing an abundance of will - perhaps Belavahn’s had manifested in the form of excessive curiosity. She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask.

“Belavahn, do you want… will you, rather, return to Haven with us? You would be safe there, and I’m sure there will be work for someone with your… abilities.”

“Yes. If you will have me, such an arrangement would be beneficial to us both.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, as if they were both waiting for the other to continue. Except, Elana realized with a jolt, she was only her waiting. Belavahn’s patience was, apparently, endless.

“Good,” she said, not sounding at all certain it really was ‘good’ as she guided Belavahn away from the dank recesses of the cave and into a seat beside the firepit.

 

Xxx

 

In short order, Varric had lit a fire nearly as welcoming as the one he maintained by his tent at Haven. The stone walls of the cave fed greedily on its heat, reflecting it back on them until the clearing was nearly as warm as a summer night.

The apostates may have been short on supplies, but at least they’d been warm.

“I take back everything I said before,” Varric muttered groggily from his bedroll beside the fire. “This is the greatest place I ever waited to get stabbed in my sleep.”

Elana smiled, laughing quietly as she surveyed the camp over a thick slice of stale bread topped with cold meat and a wedge of cheese.

_ Not stale, _ she reminded herself,  _ they cook it this way intentionally, to make it last. _

Without access to mills or a reliable source of flour, the chance to bake bread was such a rarity for Clan Llavellan that the thought of making it intentionally unpleasant was almost laughable. Fresh nut bread, or  _ isathada _ as they called it, was a special treat Elana remembered fondly from her childhood.

Not that she’d complain. Food was food, and Belavahn certainly seemed to agree. Set decidedly apart from the rest of the party, he went to work devouring his portion so quickly Elana was afraid he would choke, though his air of serenity somehow remained unbroken as he struggled for air around his meal.

The rest of her companions watched him with a mix of concern and scarcely masked distaste, though they largely labored to ignore him. Solas most of all.

“Are you alright? When was the last time you ate?” Elana asked, slightly bewildered as she rose to join him at the edge of the firelight. Once she had gotten over the initial shock of his condition, Elana had become somewhat fascinated by the man.

“Six days ago,” Belavahn said between bites. “Master Thom said it would be a waste to provide me with equal rations when I cannot feel true hunger. I was to eat tomorrow night.”

_ Master Thom. _

She recoiled in disgust at the honorific. Belavahn had been the only elf in the Witchwood so far as Elana could tell. The racial overtones of requiring him to use such a title were undeniable, but somehow not the most shocking part of his statement.

“They only fed you once a week? Don’t you feel pain, discomfort?”

“I do, but it is just one of many sensations a person might experience in this life. If my hunger cannot be sated, then I accept that, just as a wise  _ hahren _ accepts the inevitability of death and you accept that the scar on your face shall never heal.”

Elana only raised a brow at his statement, the simple motion pulling her scar taunt over the left side of her face.

_ Funny, a few years ago I might’ve pulled on knife on you for that one. _

“So you accept that he was starving you to death?” She said, mildly incredulous.

“It was as it was,” Belavahn said, finishing the last of his bread. “I am not so hungry now, and Master Thom is the dead one.”

Elana almost laughed - she might have taken it as a twisted joke is she thought he was capable of making one. Then she caught sight of his mangled feet again, and she cut herself short.

“Are you barefoot by choice?” She asked, indicating her own Dalish wraps.

“I was not provided with shoes after my last pair deteriorated beyond use,” the man responded, not quite managing to articulate a preference.

“So… no, but you would like some,” Elana said, puzzling through his obtuse statement. “Here, take this.”

She shoved the remainder of her meal into starving man’s hands and left him briefly to dig through her travel pack. Nestled at the bottom was a set of spare foot wraps. When she returned to Belavahn’s side, he was munching quietly on the chewy bread, his expression blank as ever.

He wasn’t Dalish, that much was clear from his bare face, so Elana knelt before him to secure the wraps herself, encasing the whole of his foot in the sturdy fabric just as she might a child’s in winter.

“Where were you from before the Circle?” She asked, weaving the same reflexive pattern she used to shod herself every morning around his right foot.

“I was born in the Alienage of Denerim not three doors down from the Hero of Ferelden. As a Dalish elf you look down on me for that. I am a ‘flatear,’ as you would say, an embarrassment to ‘the people,” Belavahn said, completely unfazed by the slur he had used against himself.

Elana nearly dropped the second wrap, slightly taken aback by the man’s casual use of a slur against himself. She felt her face color under his indifferent stare.

“I... suppose you are right, though that may not be...  _ completely fair _ of me” she said haltingly, collecting herself enough to finish his other foot. “Well, there you are Belavahn. We’ll have one of the healers at the Crossroads clean you up for real tomorrow before we head back to Haven.”

“Very well,” he replied, as if she had just told him about something as inconsequential as a shift in the weather at Val Royale.

“Right. Goodnight then.” Elana said uncertainly, brushing off her knees and returning to her place by the fire.

Solas watched her with amusement, a quirky sort of smile on his lips as she positioned her bedroll beside the fire.

“And have you learned much from that exchange?” he asked, a quirky sort of smile on his lips. It was clear he did not think it possible.

“Well, he’s from Denerim, and apparently he thinks I’m a pretentious ass,” Elana said with a noncommittal shrug. “Can’t be the only one.”

Solas’ laugh was low and warm, and Elana couldn’t help but smile as she heard it. Cassandra, polishing her sword with an introspective look in her eyes, remained considerably more serious beside him.

“I think it is good of you to care for him, Herald,” the warrior said, looking up from her sword. “It is disgraceful the way some tranquil are treated, and by other mages, no less.”

“It is disgraceful that they are mistreated, but not that they are made that way to begin with?” Elana asked, a strain of her distaste for the  _ shemlen _ Chantry tainting her otherwise sincere question.

Cassandra was ready, of course.

_ Likely, she has answered this very question a hundred times, both to herself and others,  _ Elana thought.

“It is a necessary evil when done for the right reasons,” Cassandra said solemnly. “A mage who cannot control their abilities will inevitably become an abomination, whether through possession or willful violence.”

“Why not just kill them? Is seems the kinder option,” Solas asked mildly.

“I think I’d rather die,” Elana agreed quietly, angling her voice so that Belavahn wouldn’t hear her, although she had little reason to think he would care. The elf had settled down on a borrowed bedroll some distance away and was staring blankly out into the darkness as he waited for a dreamless sleep to take him.

Cassandra followed her gaze.

“It is better to live a diminished life in the service of the Maker than to waste a life,” the Nevarran said, though the weight of her words hung heavy in her eyes. “Tranquility is the only way to save them without risking the lives of others. Let us hope that is why Belavahn was made this way.”

“Not altogether likely, based on the shit I saw in Kirkwall,” Varric cut in from his bedroll, barely bothering to open his eyes.

“The Gallows were far from a typical Circle, Varric, you know that,” Cassandra replied, regaining her stony countenance.

Varric grunted.

“Knight-Commander Meredith  _ was _ a special kind of crazy,” Varric mused. “I wonder if she’s still encased in red lyrium by the Gallows. That’s gotta make for some interesting conversation. ‘Oh, look at that beautiful sunset over the harbor, and, wouldn’t you know it, there’s good old Meredith, screaming as always.”

The battle hardened dwarf shook with laughter, but Elana could only look on with mild horror. It was easy to forget that so many of the terrible things in his books had actually happened.

“Yes, she is,” Cassandra said quietly, killing Varric’s mirth with one blow.

“Damn, Seeker! Why haven’t they moved her?”

Cassandra shrugged, returning to polishing her sword.

“Half of the order refuses to touch her for fear of infection, and the other half thinks it is the Maker’s will that she remain there, whether as a symbol of her righteous faith or as a reminder of what happens to those who step beyond their place,” she said, focusing on her reflection in the flat of her sword.

Whatever questions Elana still had about the Rite of Tranquility died on her lips when she saw the haunted expression on Cassandra’s face, though she endeavored admirably to hide it.

_ She may be a Seeker, but she can’t be held responsible for the wrongs of the entire Chantry,  _ Elana reminded herself. Even the Dalish were complicit by some measure, tacitly accepting the risk that their kin would be made tranquil when unwanted apostates such as Minaeve were left to fend for themselves.

Wary not to intrude on Cassandra’s moment of self-reflection, Elana lay down on her bedroll and turned away from her companions to face the darkness. Never had she been so grateful to embrace the Fade and the countless demons that waited to tempt her there.

 

Xxx

 

It shouldn’t have surprised Elana, of course, that even weeks later, when Belavahn had been safely delivered to his new home in the apothecary at Haven, that her dreams continued to fixate on tranquility.

The beginning was never quite the same. She’d relive some insignificant part of the day’s adventures, whether that be chasing wolves through the mountains or rallying a bizarre cult to the cause of the Inquisition, when suddenly she’d be surrounded by demons.

Tonight - or rather, that day - Elana was cantering through the forest on her trusty hart, optimistically named  _ Uthsyl _ , or Eternal Wind. The trees were indistinct and ever shifting around her, some inseparable blend of the Hinterland’s towering pines and the Free Marches slightly more tropical flora.

The sweet aroma of dirt and moss and free flowing water hung around her like a wild perfume. Despite the blast of air ruffling her short hair and sending goosebumps across her exposed skin - she was wearing her old Dalish armor, and her midriff and arms were completely bare amongst the blue and gold garb - she had the strange feeling that the world was moving about her rather than the other way around.

It was this familiar realization that signaled to her, at least on some level, that she was dreaming. The demons rose up around her in waves.

Desire demons wearing the face of Arlathae. Pride demons wearing her own face, only handsomer, unmarred by hate. Despair demons wearing the faces of her parents, and of all those she had loved and lost in Clan Llavallen.

But most of all rage. Rage demons wearing all of those faces, lashing out against every wrong she had ever suffered as they crowded toward her, devolving into constructs of lava and fire as they beat against the barrier of her will. 

“Never again shall we submit,” shouted the stolen faces of every clanmate, every member of her closest kin, she had ever lost.

“Her betrayal is unforgivable, cast her out! Or better yet, take her with your own hands,” called the spectre of Arlathae.

“Shemlem than, ma ane banal esh’ala,” Her mother, huntress Ilriane, hissed, her voice brittle with resentment. “Dala esh’ala ga i’ve esh’an drua Elvahen is’var del venuralas!”

_ Human tool, you are nothing to them. Kill them all before they sacrifice the people the altar of their false god. _

Their refrains were familiar, though Elana’s hold on herself was strong enough that she could admit they held some appeal without risking possession. It was healthier that way, she reasoned, and she pressed on into the blurry distance, whether toward a rift or a long awaited rendezvous with her clan.

Only she wasn’t her, she realized as a searing flash of orange light overtook her. She was him.

Belavahn. Barefaced but for a single sunburst, he was city born and ignorant of his history and  _ simply not there _ .

The demons held no appeal because there was nothing to appeal to. He was a construct as much as them, only made of flesh and the remains of a cruelly broken mind.

The Fade drawn forest meant nothing to him. Instead of ancient pines and singing waterways, he saw only only the basic fact of their literal existence.

The trees were there. The river was there. He was there. They were simply _ were _ , and he had no questions, no associations, no feelings at all about any of it. 

The Hart vanishing from under him as he leaned out over the unnaturally still waters before him.

Twisted knots of blonde hair, dead brown eyes and sunkissed skin, literally. He might have been handsome if he remembered how to appreciate such things. As it was, he face was a disjoined collection of meaningless parts and pieces.

“It is as it is,” he said, his lips moving of their own accord. “I am not so hungry now.”

But she  _ was  _ hungry. She wanted to experience it all, to feel the physical world and the Fade alike bend to her will like so much clay. Already she could tear holes in the fabric of reality itself, and close those created by her enemies… Imagine, imagine if -

_ Stop. _

Those weren’t her thoughts. The words in Elana’s head weren’t her own, but rather those of a demon bent on gaining willing passage to the waking world.

“Imagine  _ everything _ we could do together,” the desire demon moaned, placing a gloved hand on the otherworldy flesh of its exposed chest as it materialized before her.

“That’s not so difficult,” Elana said dryly, her eyes tracing every damnable curve of its flawless feminine form. She reached out as if compelled, brushing the perfect swell of its hip with her marked hand as she rose to face it. The mark pulsed with her longing, spattering emerald sparks across the demon’s amethyst skin.

The demon purred with pleasure, and Elana turned away.

“As much as I would love to take you up on that, I have a world to save.”

With that, she tore herself violently from the Beyond. In less than a heartbeat she was sitting upright by a smoldering fire, panting with unrealized desire.

Elana cursed under the breath as she collected herself. It had been years since she’d allowed herself to get that close to a demon in the Fade - much less been tempted by the allure of desire. Not since the early days of her adolescence, when she was first beginning to comprehend the depth of her feelings for Arlathae, had they approached her so boldly.

Solas chuckled softly from across the banked fire. 

“That must have been  _ quite _ a dream, Herald,” he said, glancing up from the book in his lap.

She fixed the elven apostate with a dry stare, her breathing having returned to a somewhat regular rate.

“Oh yes, I’m sure you dream of nothing but spirits of knowledge and Arlathan,” Elana shot back, her tone teasing as she scrambled to regain her dignity. “Why didn’t you wake me up if you were here the whole time? You could be fighting an abomination right now.”

“You never appeared to be in any real danger. I suspect it would take more than an errant desire demon to break that indomitable focus,” he said, raising a brow suggestively.

She smirked, recalling their earlier conversation in Haven.

“Do you? It is good to know you have such  _ faith _ in me, Solas,” Elana said, holding his gaze with smoldering eyes as she embraced the fading heat of her dream.

“Oh yes,” the old mage said, still managing to sound wise in his flirtation. “Though it begs the question of what, exactly, brought you to that point.”

Elana paused, suddenly losing interest in their game. She focused her attention instead on the glowing ashes of the fire.

“I have been dreaming about tranquility,” she said quietly. “There’s this blinding light, and then it’s like I’m not even a person anymore. When I’m Belavahn, I’m just this… mortal sieve, subsisting on the filtered grains of reality. I know that’s horrible to say. He’s still elven, after all.”

“You become Belavahn in this dream? Do you normally take on the roles of men in the Fade?” Solas asked, his curiosity piqued.

That was not what she had expected him to focus on.

“Sometimes,” Elana said, her expression guarded. “Why, is that unusual?”

“It’s difficult to say, really. I should think it indicative of an  _ unusually _ empathetic mind, at least. Many would claim the machination of the opposite sex to be unknowable.”

Elana scoffed, waving off his quasi-compliment as she felt around in the low light for her waterskin. 

“Those types of things aren’t important to me,” she said, leaving it at that as she took a large swallow of water.

Womanhood had never held much allure for her in a personal sense, although Elana was as comfortable with her body as any Dalish elf. Shame was for  _ shemlen _ , specifically Chantry folk, her brother had always said, and Elana stood by that.

Baking and babies and long, flowing hair were all well and good - gods knew she appreciated those things in other people - just not for her.

“Anyway,” Elana said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “have you met many tranquil in your travels?”

Solas inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the shift in topic.

“In a manner of speaking,” Solas replied. “I have rarely bothered to engage with them to the extent you did with Belavahn, however. I find them… discomforting, to say the least.”

“You’re not alone in that. If magic was like breathing to our ancestors, then tranquility is asphyxiation,” she said, her hand going subconsciously to her throat.

“In more ways then you can imagine,  _ da’len _ ,” he said, staring forlornly down into his book.

“Right,” Elana said, battling the urge to roll her eyes at his patronizing tone as she flopped back down on her bedroll.

If he still thought her a Dalish savage incapable of learning, Elana certainly wasn’t going to go out of her way to sleep in a tent for his benefit. The open air was just fine by her.

“If there is anything I can do to ease your dreaming, please let me know,” Solas said quietly, seeming to sense his folly.

“There is, actually,” Elana said, shifting into a more comfortable position. “Just promise to kill me if some  _ shem _ ever manages to brand me with their Maker’s holy sunburst.”

“Ar dir’vhen’an, Elana,” Solas replied almost immediately, his voice low.

_ I promise, Elana. _

Against her better judgement, she sat up again to face him.

“What, seriously?” Elana asked, unsure if he was simply playing off her, admittedly tasteless, joke. A promise in Elvish was a promise before all the People, at least to her.

“It is a serious matter,” Solas replied, pausing to consider his words further. “Can I trust you to do the same for me, should it ever come to it?”

Elana regarded him with open bewilderment for a moment, her mouth slightly open. She had not expected this evening to end in a death pact.

“Yes, of course,” she finally said. “Ar dir’vhen’an, Solas.”

Elana fell asleep soon after. From then on, when she dreamed of life as Belavahn, there was always the visage of a merciful apostate to strike her down and send her tumbling back into the waking world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, special thanks to the two readers who left me kudos on the last chapter :3
> 
> (SPOILERS ALL DAI!) Personally, I really hope we get to explore Cassandra's reveal about Tranquility further in the next Dragon Age game. If it's set in Tevinter, which the epilogue seems to hint heavily at, then I wouldn't be all that surprised to learn that the slave-owning population uses the Rite of Tranquility to keep potential Elven mages in check as a general rule. Something like, say, a slave uprising led by our new POV character could be an exciting opportunity to find out exactly what happens when the rite is reversed...


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